


Words

by MooseFeels



Series: Kept [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Courtesan!Cas, fairy tale, former prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's heard this story before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

“The Archangel Gabriel,” Dean interrupts. “Yeah, I’ve heard this story.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. The fire lit not too long ago, producing more light than heat at the moment. “You are terrible,” he says. “Absolutely the worst.”

Dean laughs, and the sound is huge. He’s sitting across the fire, just enough light to catch at his eyes and face, to show the barest idea of his eyes under the cloak and hood. His body is almost lax, but there is a fearsome sword near him. Castiel can almost forget he’s a soldier, if not for that sword.

“I’m flattered,” Dean answers. “What did I do to deserve the honor?”

Castiel huffs, because he knows exactly what he did. He’s going to tell him, too, when his stomach rumbles suddenly, and he realizes he hasn’t eaten since the day before yesterday. Mint tea in the room.

Dean stops laughingand rummages around in his sack. Pulls out a small, iron teapot and a wrapped package, a loaf. Tosses the loaf to Castiel and fills the pot with water from his canteen. Sets it over the fire and says, “It’s a good story, but it’s an old one.”

“Are there any other kind?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. “Well, yes. The city where I’m from, there are people who go out every day and gather all of the stories that have happened that day and they print them and give them out. Those are new stories.”

Castiel frowns. “Print?” He asks.

Dean shrugs. Adjusts the kettle. “Men use a machine to make the writing show up over and over again without a man having to work one sheet at a time with a pen. Much faster.” He glances back up, and his eyes glitter in the light, like two gems. “I take all of your books were handwritten. It is a luxury in my country, to have handwritten books. A sign of deep affection.”

Castiel looks away, at the dark ground. “Whores don’t need to write or read,” he murmurs. “We learned our stories by mouth.”

Dean turns away. He fiddles absently with the kettle some more, and then he digs back through his bag for a canister, presumably full of tea. “Eat,” he says, gruffly. “I’ll see about hunting something once we get to a forest.”

Castiel has a bite or two of the tough bread and chews it contemplatively. It is different from the flat bread that was brought to his room in the mornings, bubbled and scorched from the ovens. This one is rounded and large. The crust is tough and brown and the interior is airy and chewy. “Where is your country?” he asks.

“North of the desert,” Dean answers. “Towards the interior of the continent. Two days hard ride to the road, four days to the border, three to the capitol. Slower on foot and slower with an army. Just a man and his horse, though, it’s not too bad.”

“Why did your country go to war?” Castiel asks.

Dean stops moving for a long time. Just holds the canister and listens.

“We were scared,” he says, finally. “We’d heard something, seen something, and we were scared.”

The water has finally begun to steam, so Dean tears away a section of his cloak and fills it with loose tea. He ties it with loose threads and dunks it into the water. Pulls it away from the fire.

“Please,” he says. “Finish your story.”

 


End file.
